Identity
by Xaoir
Summary: "Human identity is the most fragile thing we have, and it's often only found in moments of truth." The Reapers have been destroyed, the synthetics lost, and Shepard presumed dead. The Normandy crew struggles to return to the Citadel and their ravaged homes, but they're surprised by what they find.
1. Chapter 1

"Garrus?"

A soft, wispy voice murmured lowly behind him; quiet, serene, and all together uncertain, reality molded back around the turian. Metal floors. Sharp lighting. A wall memorial. This moment was meant to be honorable, a time of respecting the dead and the sacrifices they made, and finding acceptance in their Commander's passing.

"Are you-" Liara began at his sudden lurch in posture. He'd been staring at the memorial wall for a few minutes now, his visage that of strong contemplation. She was no mind reader, but the asari expected he was reliving his time with Shepard, a time where she envied him from afar.

"This isn't … right."

Crew members who fought beside Commander Shepard stood solemnly, _awkwardly._ He heard James Vega mutter incoherently, while Kaiden Alenko, the 'second in command', patted gently at his shoulder.

"We need to honor her. What's not right about that?"

Talons had been gripping that metal plaque for some time. An emptiness filled him, an inescapable void that slowly ate away the soul, numbed his emotions and-

"And how do we know she's dead?" Raspy vocals sounded strange to his own ears; they were hollow despite hopeful premise. He turned slowly to face the forlorn faces of Tali Zorah, Vega, Liara, Javik and –Joker. The pilot's gaze never lifted from the floor as the others shifted uncomfortably around him.

They've been sitting for roughly two weeks on an uncharted planet, making repairs to the Normandy and quietly mourning their losses. Due to his rank among the Alliance crew, Alenko took charge at the discretion of Liara. She was not the ship's XO, and partly figured the humans wouldn't abide commands from an asari. No one seemed to look past the jagged edge that defined each species on board, however – in fact, more were willing to listen to the aliens now that their Commander-

"Garrus, I know it's hard-" His grip intensified, as if meaning could transcend through their armor and he'd understand the final truth. "-but we have to let go." Heavy voice eluded to the biotic's own personal demons; focus blurred as it shifted along doleful faces.

He saw Liara first; moisture collected at the corners of bright blue eyes – she looked away shamefully. Tali's expressions were always unreadable, but the hunch in her shoulders portrayed hidden weights that withered her posture. Vega was surprisingly indifferent, his attention strained on the long list of deceased crew members that blared loudly before them. The memorial grew in number, and yet he couldn't bring himself to look at the name cradled in the turian's hands. Joker's empty gaze studied metal flooring for imperfections. He hadn't spoke much since they crash landed, save but quiet jokes to himself (or was he trying to speak to EDI?). Her 'death' was a painful scar, nonetheless, and while they used to share a common paranoia around the AI, each grew to respect her. Joker even loved her. On that note, he could relate-

Javik and Liara shared a brief look, however blank it was; the Prothean expected great woe, and the Commander's fate had been sealed the moment she discovered the Reapers. He highly doubted she survived what occurred on the Crucible. At this moment, he was the only one to embrace death for what it was – a sorrowful, but necessary destiny that awaited them all at some point. Shepard fought bravely and achieved great success against impossible odds – his ancestors may rest peacefully now, in thanks to her.

"You can, but I'm not letting go until I _know_." Garrus pushed the plaque against the man's chest; he fumbled with it clumsily (allowing it to fall was just as disgraceful as letting the American Flag touch the floor) and mustered up a burning scowl aimed at the turian's back.

"Know _how_, Garrus? We lost nearly all of our communication equipment, the engine's shot, the mass effect core's leaking... we're stuck here for who knows how long. There won't be answers any time soon. We have to accept this if we want to move on-" From anger to sympathy, Alenko's arms sagged – the plaque in his hands felt like it was crafted out of lead.

He said nothing. The growing pit in his stomach devoured the intestines; it'd eventually convert into an abyss, draining him of hope right before it consumed his heart.

A silhouette outlined in dark red was upon him faster than he realized; Javik stood before him suddenly, and with a painful grip to the wrist, the Prothean's unapologetic method of mind delving rippled throughout the small group as muffled gasps.

"She is _dead_, turian. Accept the grievance and find peace that you were once able to call her yours." He leaned back, just as Liara hurriedly moved forward to separate them.

"Please- we have many tasks at hand. Infighting won't get us off this planet any faster..."

His gaze was smoldering; fixated, hawk-like eyes glared at the Prothean's tight-lipped mouth. He didn't get it, none of them did. Garrus overturned his wrist sharply, retracted it in a quick yank and used that same limb to shove past him. All eyes fell on the turian's slumped posture as he walked away; he needed to be alone, away from that god damn plaque, away from everyone, away from his own thoughts.

"Maybe he has a point," Joker's voice splintered on a hasty swallow. "-we don't know. And until we do, we need to get our shit together." A moment of stillness, the pilot nodded his capped head once before hobbling off to the elevator – his destination, the Normandy's lonesome cockpit.

"Let's... let's just keep up on the repairs, everyone. Me and Vega will go out scouting for any possible resources. At least the planetary scanner still works..." Alenko's directions held little command; dull pitch and sunken shoulders, he set aside Shepard's name with a heavy sigh. The group dispersed, one by one.

Did Garrus and Joker honestly believe she survived? Hope was a contagious disease.


	2. Chapter 2

There wasn't a holy light to greet her as she ascended to a plane of cryptical existence. There wasn't a pit of demonic flame lapping at her feet as the Devil's malicious laughter filled a black void.

There was **nothing**.

Gray. Nothing but endless _gray._

A thick, colorless mist surrounded every inch of the space she floated in – fear exhausted her, its icy touch lingering deep within bone marrow, but she felt no literal pain. It was cold, and strangely humid. Where was she?

_**Limbo.**_

Shepard remembered very little about her escape from the Crucible. The Ghost Child, or Catalyst, or _Harbinger_ (or whatever the hell it was) offered her three choices to save the galaxy, or doom it. Out of those three, she chose total annihilation of the Reapers. Anderson wanted it, and god damnit she wanted it more than anyone or anything, but- _was it the right choice?_

The synthetics were gone, a pawn used in the grand scheme of things whether she wanted to admit it or not; her forged alliance with the geth ended just as it started, and to make matters worse, Legion's sacrifice went in vain. It was safe to assume that EDI, the Normandy's AI (and weird love interest for their pilot, Joker) was 'killed' with the rest of the synthetics; she _was_ part Reaper tech...

**_Don't forget you, Shepard, as well as anyone else with cybernetics. Cerberus pieced your broken body together with machines, you're a Cyborg. A grotesque hodgepodge of flesh and metal. Just like _**_Saren_**_..._**

What spoke inside her head wasn't human, but a reverberating pitch that somehow translated into words. Not exactly robotic, yet it sounded eerily transparent and well-known**. **As Shepard's mind concentrated on the growl, Limbo's fog began clumping – wisplike vapors slipped past her nostrils and permeated through ajar lips. Each time she gasped, frigid air stole fragments of willpower.

_No. __**No.**__ I don't know what the hell you are, but I'm nothing like Saren. Nothing like the Reapers. My humanity remains..._

_**So you think. **_

_Who are you, to think you know so much about me?_

_**I'm you.**_

Dread overlapped incredulity. There was no way that this disembodied voice belonged to her- why had she been forsaken?

_Don't let it win, Shepard. Focus on something else. Focus on where you are. _Another personality emerged quickly to drown out the poisonous whisper that teased moist eyes; Anderson?

Cognitive ability replayed what occurred moments ago; she crawled on bloody knees to the Conduit's pale-blue beacon that connected Citadel and Earth, but her strength gave out. Her lungs deflated as the air was ripped violently from her mouth. Then, a horrible sequence of dreaming, like when she was flung out the Normandy and into the cold infinite, left to die as her hardsuit malfunctioned. The pain was tormenting, but not lasting. Not like the soul-crushing gray that resembled fresh volcanic ash.

"Hello?" Her voice was hoarse, rough and unpleasant on her tongue. It hardly echoed amongst rolling murkiness; visibility spanned two feet in front of her, she couldn't find footing to save her life- erh... afterlife.

Time did not exist here, she knew that much, or at least speculated by how her gruff call hung in still air. Oddly enough, she was still wearing old, scorched armor – where was that white robe everyone mentioned upon visiting the Land of the Dead? She shifted wildly; her gaze, although fuzzy and strained, peered through the opaque walls that began enclosing around her- slowly. _Suffocating._

"Anyone there!" She attempted a scream, it failed miserably; her esophagus gurgled as if she just choked on a mouthful of smoke.

The chills came first. Starting at her ankles and spiraling up her thighs, the dank coldness threatened to pull her down-... _just take me now. Get this shit over with._

Solid ground shaped beneath scuffed boots as her right hand grasped materialized metal, something warm and familiar... _**her pistol.**_

Shepard rediscovered long-forgotten balance, however lopsided it was when she planted her feet firmly on a coagulated slate-gray platform. It possessed no texture – just an oval base discolored in sickly gray. The pistol brought consolation, a friendly touch in a hostile environment.

Was she supposed to shoot herself? Would that release her from this empty Ghost World?

"Wouldn't hurt to see a little bit of color..." Always morbid, even in death; barrel of the pistol aligned itself mechanically with her temple. She still had control over her body, and if this was how it was meant to end- _**just like Saren.**_ Hovering finger wrapped gingerly around the trigger, but it froze at that inner remark. She got Saren to kill himself this way (a lot of good that did, Sovereign took over his corpse, anyway), and here she was, planning the same route to escape this god-awful gray.

"I gave him peace... an option. Sovereign indoctrinated him and- and I helped him redeem himself!"

She was shouting. At nothing.

The pistol trembled; Shepard's legs swayed. Wet blinks did not release the torrent of tears down her face as she hoped. She couldn't cry here. She couldn't find her own peace. Why?

_**You have sins to atone for, why else?**_ Burbled static again, it combated the remnants of her sense.

If it made the voices shut up for at least a minute, she'd jump into a pit of fucking lava. "Okay... a countdown. One... two..."

Whirling; sudden wind blew the dancing mist, manipulating them until they thinned out into dull, transparent ribbons.

Interruptions aplenty; the ground then heaved beneath her. Vibrations shook Shepard down to her knees; the pistol clacked in front of her – the fog tripled in size before sharp winds sliced down its center, leaving the eye to wonder what lay beyond it.

"Shit!" The metaphorical heart pounding away in her throat stopped beating all together.

A loud, mechanical groan roared its presence. Something was moving within the pallid clouds; an inky silhouette taller than a skyscraper. It darkened much of the region that stretched on in front of her. She recognized its shape and sound immediately.

_No. No, no, no..._ Black and blue sockets dilated, her eyes bulged with renewed panic.

"No..." Completely breathless, she felt dizzy with disbelief. "You aren't real..."

The massive figure was always indistinguishable- _nightmare stuff,_ four red-lights shredded through the realm's dense neutrality. It groaned louder, as if reminding Shepard of its proximity, of its stomach-clenching noise that awoke her violently from countless sleeps.

_Harbinger._

"I killed you..."

Reflective lasers capable of exact precision took aim on Shepard's body. What she expected was a death within a death – vaporization, an explosion, intense pain. Nothing came, aside from bright red lights that temporarily blinded her; Harbinger's tentacle-like legs thudded forward until darkness coiled itself tightly around Shepard's pale face.

"_The cycle has ended,_" Mechanical delivery was flat, as if 'speaking' cost the synthetic an unreasonable amount of energy. She felt each word throb throughout her body in a series of invisible pulses; eyebrows twitched, frustration arose chaotically from that hole of despair building between her ribs.

"_-you have made the final choice, we are forced to accept._"

"Then why am I here? Why are **you** here?" Shepard beat down her anxiety until there was only rage; Harbinger could not attack- but... _it doesn't have a soul, … does it? _The geth believed they did, in some form or another. Why not a Reaper?

"_That which you believe is eternal does not exist; this is within the confides of your subconscious, a place that surpasses reality's perception. A place that is limited and two-dimensional. Primitive._" Even in Limbo, Harbinger was just as insulting as ever. Nice.

So... was she dead, or wasn't she? Reapers always spoke in riddles – it guaranteed uncertainty and confusion. "Still fried your ass..." She muttered coldly; she snatched up her fallen pistol, stiffened the knees and took an awkward stand before the metal monstrosity's behemoth shade. "Primitive or not, you dodged my question. Why are you here?"

"_You are now dominate. We have deemed it necessary to bestow you the consequence of your decision, so that you may take warning._"

"Warning... of what?" Dominate? Consequence? "I made the right choice, I stand by it." _**Saren.**_ Shepard flinched inwardly, and nearly jumped out of her spiritual skin as Harbinger shifted. The Reaper's front legs bent at flexible joints; sinewy metal gave pull, and the penetrating globes that governed its 'eyes' twinkled to a dismal blue. They were separated by several hundred feet, but even at this distance, Shepard made out every detail of the Ancient AI as it leaned toward her.

"_Yes. We are forced to accept defeat. Your choice was your own, however selfish and hollow. It is expected of your species to choose selfishly, to benefit only itself._"

"You wanna talk about selfish? Are you fucking joking? Leave the weak where they die... pretty sure you've said that a hundred god damn times. Didn't know the Reapers were hypocritical beings." The pistol quivered on a hasty grip. She was never known for her patience; if this was her personal hell, debating with Harbinger all day-

"_Your perception allows you to see only what you desire. When given the chance to expand your mind, to evolve into greater beings, you deny it for the sake of Identity. Your idea of Identity is flawed, and will be the death of the galaxy._"

"N-no... identity is what removes us from the rest, so we aren't lumped together like sacks of flesh or hunks of metal. Like **you. **It's import-"

"_Identity is not what defines you. While you revel in your victory, the Black Tide encroaches on your galaxy's fringe. You cannot maintain identity; we have sacrificed our individualism as we were the last solution. Culture will not grant you salvation._"

Clenched teeth smothered a growling hiss; the sound festered into a guttural rumble.

"I'm not gonna argue with you. What the hell is the Black Tide? Can't you speak clearly for once?"

"_Our Creators saw the Black Tide's conception; we were forged, cultures unified, and Identity lost. You, Shepard, have doomed your species and every organism in order to defend a useless idea. The Black Tide knows no difference between metal or flesh; all will be destroyed._"

The urge to shoot Harbinger (the equivalent of an ant biting the ankle of a giant) was overwhelming; her fingers cramped, breath fell short as a ragged inhale. The Black Tide, she's never heard of it, but if it was worse than the Reapers- _you're dead, does it matter?_ A certain turian came to mind. _Yes._

"It can be stopped. They'll find a way. If we destroyed you-"

"_You continue to bask in ignorance. Without the convergence of every species in their galactic apex, the Black Tide cannot be destroyed, for it is neither living, nor dead. You have failed, Shepard, as you have failed at maintaining your Identity._"

"No... you're lying." Interrupting the Reaper was impossible. It talked over her while degrading her purpose. "Shut- up … stop... STOP!" It happened too quickly for her brain to register. Shepard's pistol leveled itself with its upper body, it didn't matter where. Conductive ammo clacked loudly against Harbinger's great hull – she kept shooting until striking its lower left orb – _pop! _Gray glass crackled.

She used to stand for something; ruthless nature gave way to a tough reputation and it was only a matter of time before everyone, every race, knew who she was and what she stood for- _**failure.**_

"If I have to kill you for the next eternity..."

_**You are no Savior. Live with your sins; guilt will drown you.**_

A combination of voices slithered along her eardrums, Harbinger's and the echoing taunt that came from her mind. Ricocheting bullets erupted as muffled 'pings' – each hit chiseled out a minimal crack in that mighty body. Its legs bowed inward. Ever so slowly, the cracks widened and formed at its midpoint; profound fissures splintered away alien metal.

Large chunks crumpled free, but as they struck ground, they instantly melted into swells of a strange obsidian liquid. Each piece gave way to more inky fluids – darkness began swallowing the gray. Its optics, still radiating and brilliant, winked off right as it split apart at its core. The whole ship was breaking away in segments- no way the pistol was capable of such damage...

"What … the fuc-"

Harbinger was falling toward her, and she couldn't move. Legs were rooted to the spot, like she'd been dipped in cement and left to dry under a baking sun. The shadows multiplied as black ichor washed across her ankles, knees...

_**You have failed. Celestial Mechanics, the Black Tide, will extinguish all lifeforms – synthetic, and organic. We were your- salvation.**_

One severed half of the Reaper collided with enough force to prematurely wind Shepard from afar; the frothy, black liquid reached her chest. Foreign metal became brittle and fragile – it liquefied and doubled the voluminous fluid that now resembled a rising sea. As Harbinger's core slowly collapsed, an oily wave formed; nine feet high... twelve feet...

"You were never our salvation... we can save ourselves..."

Shepard dropped her pistol into the watery goop. This was it; she saw the tide peak curl unnaturally, like a dangerous wave threatening to capsize a pathetic, tiny boat- aching eyes closed, she'd not fight the current that suddenly engulfed her, mind and body. Harbinger's new form crashed down on her like an explosion. Currents pulled her body at every angle; left, right – up and down, the vertigo was enough to bleed her of her last breath. Pungent odor corroded her mouth, the smell of smoke- blackness began to strangle her.

The Black Tide devoured the human, the damaged shell of a woman- _… promise you'll come back. _

He was the last thing she heard in-between the tide's thunderous static; was it possible to keep that commitment? She almost swore she felt a caress along her throat- _Garrus._

Every limb felt like it weighed a ton. She was sinking again while twisting painfully, to and fro – like a puppet on tangled string. _Breathe. You have to breathe. _

Just as she reached the body's limit of oxygen deprivation, her chest palpitated; Shepard aggressively inhaled dusty air. Tangy like metal, sour like wet concrete, and a godsend for her lungs.

"That's it... wake up, Shepard." Known voice whispered reassuringly. He was alive! _Oh, God-_

"Ander—son..." She croaked shamefully; the disorienting Black Sea dispersed – her eyes snapped open. Admiral David Anderson, her mentor, was not leaning over her when she woke. One helluva mindfuck greeted her instead. Earth. London. Destruction.

The Black Tide that drenched her eventually began evaporating off flickering eyelids like morning dew; Harbinger's message rang clear in her head. No matter how hard she tried to forget it, pieces resurfaced as bile clogged her throat. _Was a dream. A bad dream-_

Swollen gray clouds dumped sheets of cooling rain; London's fires still burned off in the distance, their dark smoke created steaming, acrid plumes. Sol even made an appearance; glowering behind the atmosphere's coverage, dazzling yellow light punched misshapen holes in wet aura. There was beauty to it, despite her vision being solely limited to London's towering rubble.

No Anderson. A hasty glance to her left spotted just a pile of muddy ash, and yet her clenched fist felt a warm metal sliver pressing against its palm. Chain intertwined itself around her thumb and index finger; she extracted the dirty appendage carefully (her forearm was broken). At eye level, the object was severely blurred – fractal color in her right optic was saturated, double-vision. It refused to focus on the engraved chip, but at heart, she knew what it was: Anderson's dog tag. How'd she get that?

Her body was broken in too many places; ribs, left arm, her right shin- and no matter how hard she stared up at a Reaper-free sky, that malfunctioning eye flickered dumbly. It was permanently damaged, either by shrapnel, or- _broken cybernetics._ Shepard's fist thumped across her chest; looking at the N7 logo stung her dignity.

Rocks, glass and metal dug painfully at her back. She was home, and it was a shit hole. Rebar pipe pinned her down at the hip. Dry blood collected at the corner of her bruised mouth. Might as well be a corpse, tucked away beneath a shelter of smoky debris. This was it? This was what she fought and died for? Was Garrus dead, too? She'd have nothing. Not a fucking thing besides her _failed identity._ Harbinger was right; she was no galactic hero. Commander Shepard was a monster.

_Think I fucked up, Admiral... Garrus..._

Dingy red hair swept over unblinking hues as she twisted her head; amongst pebble and mud, Shepard barked out lifeless laughter until the tears came.


	3. Chapter 3

Spiraling blues illuminated the dim cabin in flecks of soft white-teal and pale aquamarine. Floating effects began drifting wildly, like churning nebula gases. Obsidian shadows slithered along the lower half of his face. Fish and eel danced along thin, glassy cracks at the tank's base as pieces of stale food chunks bobbed at the water's surface. Almost reminded him of home, the oceanic view- among other memories, a sickness continued to stir his stomach. Was this the last thing she saw before heading down to assemble her crew? Striped sun-fish and gray eels fought over the dispensed meal as jellyfish calmly swam by- _completely oblivious._

Garrus wasn't enjoying his drunken buzz, a real pity. His turian rum sloshed after another wholesome swig – a few drinks left, his hand containing the booze sagged against an upraised knee. Posture wore itself down; he found comfort in occupying Shepard's old desk chair with her aquarium to his right. It was unclear how long he's been sulking away from the group, maybe a couple hours at least.

No one else had investigated her cabin, perhaps either out of respect or fear. For the most part, he hid away here three times, each time becoming increasingly longer intervals than the last. He went from fixing the leaking fish tank to fiddling with her collection of starships. That fact was somewhat intimate, but he never dared touching the unmade bed for that required him to snoop beyond the set of stairs. Privacy still existed, whether she was a vengeful spirit or a vengeful human – he'd like to not test his luck with the supernatural.

The turian slumped forward; her terminal was off, but a pinging 'beep!' initiated a start-up screen. "Good evening, Commander Shepar-" Virtual intelligence chirped a happy greeting. _Damnit. _Garrus hastily jabbed at its holographic button with a talon; the image blinked off. This goof-up drove him to guzzle down another unhealthy amount of spiced turian rum.

Eyesight slowly became bleary; he relaxed again – all was silent amidst the soft bubbling of unmindful sea-life.

He felt at fault for Shepard's eventual death. Part of him believed her alive, but the other- _Joker's solemn gaze stared at the Normandy's flight controls as he firmly seized his shoulder; "We have to leave now..." _

The tactical side of him understood why they departed the battle – the Catalyst was armed and ready, no one knew what kind of damage a Reaper-Destroyer was capable of, and if they stayed- _we would have died._ Or was that mere speculation?

He finished off the drink much too eagerly. His throat burned, his head throbbed. Clumsy legs pushed himself back in the awkward seat; it creaked on a hazy lean to the left- or was that the effect of alcohol?

_Speculation._ That's all it was. Garrus fought and failed at maintaining a professional stance on the subject involving Shepard's presumed death. He wore the guilt on his shoulders, and with each passing day, the weight of emotion grew heavier. Logic believed she'd been vaporized on the Catalyst, while delusional hope clung to an idea that she somehow survived. She always did- they killed her once and now... "There's no Cerberus to _bring_ her back..."

Rusty vocals dryly echoed in his self-made shell; each syllable punctured a nerve in his chest. _Heaven's overrated, y'know. At least in Hell, we'd be with good company. Devil be damned. _A voice murmured beneath conjured static; he stiffened sharply at the waist, jerked a leg and almost dropped his empty bottle. It sounded like Shepard, her raspy words all but diluted amongst the room's metal walls. The statement was something old; memory jarred it open like a door. She said that right before kissing him – a sly smile playing at the corner of her dark colored mouth.

He hadn't understood what that meant at the time; some poke at religious views, maybe. Now, under the rose-colored glasses of booze, he gathered her expressed thoughts and held on to them for dear life- much like he held on to that hollow bottle.

The turian's detached gaze settled on the fish tank once more; he was staring so intently, he hadn't heard the loud whooshing of automatic doors, or noticed the slender silhouette standing some feet away.

"Thought I might find you up here," a synthesized voice broke his silence. Tali'Zorah stood adjacent to him with a casual lean that placed her back against the side of the ambient glowing tank. The turian would have flinched under different circumstance, but he remained drunkenly stoic, even if his insides quivered. How long had she been standing there?

"-and you're drinking? Can't say I'm too terribly surprised." Her attempt at chiding him was met with a prickled glare.

"Escaping from you guys is next to impossible..." The quarian approached as he slurred his way through an aggravated mutter, but when she stopped short of arms reach, Garrus found his eyesight drooping to the floor.

"Well, we _are_ stranded together. On a foreign planet. On a broken ship. Besides, why would you want to escape from us? We're not that bad, are we?" Tali jokingly crooned, her hands settling at her hips in an innocent sway that provoked another glare – however meaningless it was, the turian found his attention wandering.

He's noticed within the last few weeks that Tali had been openly seeking him, either to disrupt his personal space out of annoyance, or concern, he wasn't sure which these days. He did know that it was somewhat endearing, the way she tried distracting him from the greater things that hurt more than just his heart. If he was trying to escape anyone, it was himself, and he was doing a shitty job at it.

"Sometimes." A drunken grunt, he waved off her cheery demeanor with the back of his hand. "You don't make hiding easy, do you?"

Tali grinned childishly behind her purple-opaque mask. He couldn't see it, but the lift in her shoulders often betrayed her mood – she was feeling somewhat at ease, despite their rough situation. Garrus was about the only one she truly favored, Liara being a mild exception. The three aliens shared more than just fond memories of their Commander – they created a dysfunctional comradeship. After all, they held a special place, being 'Normandy Regulars.' Alenko counted, sort of, but being human, it ousted him from their so-called group.

"You sound like Shepard." That hit a particular spot on the turian; his shoulders sagged while his spine corrected to an agitated posture. _Oh, Keelah..._

Honestly, her affections flowed at a slow trickle – Tali respected Garrus more than she let on, but for Shepard's sake, boundaries were always in mind. Would it hurt to explore outside that barrier now? She naturally assumed the worse for their leader; the human could not have lived what transpired on the Crucible- whatever it was, the explosion of concentrated energy that took out the Reapers (all guess-work, really) would have fried her corpse to atoms. Finding a body, or an answer, was not likely, but she couldn't share this with him, most of all.

Garrus turned away and quickly stood; position straightened long enough to find proper footing. He was lopsided as he turned to gently brush past her, hawk-like gaze ever-so fixated on the swimming sea critters. The rum bottle was slack in his grip. He went silent, edgy. She instantly regretted saying that- despite obvious truth in the observation.

"Garrus, I'm not... very good at this, but listen-" She murmured begrudgingly, no matter how ineffective it seemed to be, the turian strolled right on by as if she didn't exist. A peculiar ache settled in her throat. She swallowed sharply. Liara was much better at dealing with emotional baggage, why wasn't she doing this again? _I volunteered._

Without so much a glance back, Garrus took to standing before the aquarium, his unoccupied hand settling on its chipped base. There was silence (when wasn't there?) before he grumbled lowly. By his body language, she knew he was agitated with her disturbance.

"I'll humor you... what, Tali?"

"Don't _humor _me, Garrus. You **know** mourning like this won't bring her back." It was hard not to sound miffed with his behavior. "It's one thing to come up here and... ah... reminisce-" Normally she took the high road when it came to confrontation, but as of late, the little quarian mechanic had evolved to speak her mind, to try altering bad decisions with abrupt truth and fact. And fact of the matter was-

"-but I can literally smell the alcohol on you and I have dual-filters installed in my suit." She moved up the stairs to stand shoulder to shoulder, her protected face reflecting calming blue. "I'm pretty sure Shepard wouldn't appreciate you vomiting all over her cabin..." The latter was meant to be comical, even if it _was_ just another fact. Garrus found it somewhat amusing; delayed chuckle triggered his head to tilt back toward the quarian.

"Who says I'm mourning? And really... I'm not _that_ drunk, Tali..."

"Are you sure?" _About both. _She was fast when she wanted to be, and before he realized it, Tali gently overturned his wrist and quickly slid the rum bottle out of his grip. "Look at that!" A hollow rattle implied the contents were gone. "Empty."

Garrus grumbled something intangible; likely drunken slurs that aimed to insult her, Tali paid no attention. "Just as I thought!"

Her sarcastic cooing grated his plates, but he shrugged it off with an awkward slouch. If she wanted to badger him about spirits knew what, he'd tune her out – easy as that.

"Garrus..." A hand touched the outer edge of his elbow; why did it make him grimace? "Come downstairs with me. It isn't... good for you to be up here, by yourself."

By himself? What was he, a suicidal maniac?

"I appreciate the gesture, but I'm fine." He gave a slight pull to yank him out of her closeness; temptation boldly reared its ugly head – he felt dizzy, guilty, and all the more shameful when an eye swept down at the quarian's shapely curves. Almost reminded him of- _get it out of your mind._

"I'll sober up in the battery. If you run into Alenko, tell him I need to speak with him. I almost have the gunning system back online. We might be able to reroute its power to the ship's core engine... a long shot, but I'll _try_ to be optimistic."

She watched him lunge up the stairs with sorrowful, worried eyes. Burning, she felt it temporarily blind her – tears?

"Garrus- you bosh'tet..." Her pitiful murmur went unheard as the loft doors sprung open; his silhouette wavered, indicating that he paused once, but didn't chance a look behind his shoulder. Just like that, he was gone. And she was alone. Awkwardly alone with only her stupid thoughts-

"He really loves you, Shepard..." Tali strained a breathless gasp. She felt stupid for even trying to console him, what the hell was she thinking? A knuckle rapt at her helmet as she clenched the side of her head for a vigorous shake. Was that jealousy that made her blood run cold?

She spared a slow glance around the empty cabin, and one last look to the quivering fish beside her.

_She's dead._

_Why won't he accept that? _

Childish feet stomped up the stairs in a vain attempt to chase her turian friend.


	4. Chapter 4

She overcame London's obstacles by miraculous assertion, her body withered and on the verge of complete failure. A patrolling Alliance squad found her gulping down murky, contaminated rain puddles in cracked cement, wildly delirious and perpetually rambling about something called the _Black Tide._

No one knew who she was, the soldier that survived Ground Zero.

"So... not even a first name? Doesn't she have an ID tag?"

A shopping outlet located outside London's ravaged downtown had been converted into an Alliance-based medical center, but it wasn't before long that it'd reach its capacity. Tents were quickly erected in the streets, headquarters rearranged and supplies shipped in from all over the city. Humanity's death toll was steadily climbing, day by day. There wouldn't be enough of anything to go around. The dying laid in miserable condition, given only small doses of painkiller as they waited the inevitable. What kind of victory was this, leaving the weak where they died?

The red-headed solider was whispered about in passing; it was only a matter of time that her appearance birthed unhealthy hope – were there others out there, trapped amongst the rubble?

"-no, she said she lost it, and I'd believe it. You saw her armor when they brought her in... how'd she live through that hell?" Nurse Alloway murmured lowly, her strained attention on a datapad in her hands; it flickered the soldier's vague information such as assumed age, weight, and vital signs. It was strange how she refused a bed, and even medical treatment- at first. Exhaustion finally got to her, and once relieved of her fried shell, she was moved to a balcony room with three comatose patients.

"Luck." The physician on duty at the moment was Dr. Myong, a well-trained man with a cold demeanor to match his cold, analytical eyes. They squinted over the offered pad Nurse Alloway presented him; the woman was stable, for the moment.

Technology suffered after the energized field spread across the globe. Scientists presumed it to be electromagnetic, designed to render specific technologies useless, no one knew for sure. Communication towers in key areas fell mute, databases and high-tech computers became modern paperweights as their virtual banks were wiped clean. The 'older' systems somehow endured, instruments dating back to fifty years or more; engineers were currently salvaging through the wreckage to find operable equipment. They were truly priceless.

"Diagnostic sweep says she's forty percent metal... lots of enhancements. What rank is she?" Myong's stern eyes met the puzzled nurse; she shrugged with a tired 'who cares?' expression that tightened her lips.

"Hard to say. Most of her armor's emblems were unreadable. She won't speak to us directly. The psych-technician said she was speaking nonsense, Black … Sea, Black Wave. I don't know, likely hallucinations brought on by dehydration. She failed a mental stress test, but given where she's been... I'd say that's not surprising, either. You should note her enhancements are not Alliance-issued. Basic x-rays indicate that she's been through a lot... I've put her on calcium tabs to help with bone mending, a few doses of morphine for pain. Other than that, nanotech has kept her going so far. There's a malfunction in her right optic nerve-"

"What, is it prosthetic?"

"No... it's organic. I'd like to run more tests on her cellular age, but-" Alloway gave her distinct shrug. "It's a lost cause, really. My guess is that it enhances her eyesight, but the modification was damaged during the blast. We can't repair it with what we have on hand. Do you have... suggestions?"

Myong stood abruptly from his corner desk, a lopsided piece of wood and metal that once acted as a counter top for a jewelry kiosk. "I want to speak with her."

* * *

Formerly a break room for mall employees, it was cramped with instruments and cots. It also stank of piss with a wafting hint of strong cleaning chemicals. Makeshift palettes lined the floors, creating a maze-like walk space for medical staff observing three bodies, all unconscious. Two men and a woman, their identities unknown to her – civilians, or Alliance soldiers – it didn't really matter. None of this mattered. The woman looked like she'd been attacked by a horde of Husks; she was missing chunks of her hair, both eyes were black and swollen. The men went up against a Brute, she'd guess; broken limbs, battered faces.

_None of this mattered. _

Shepard's chair was uncomfortably hard and narrow. It didn't recline very far, either. Plastic covering squeaked as she leaned to the left- "Ugn..." parched grunt forced her to sit upright again, but the general pain that traveled up her spine was short-lived, at best. Her clothes felt itchy, uncomfortable; some civilian get-up consisting of saggy brown pants and a white shirt two sizes too big. Her right arm was wrapped tight in gauze, her right eye boasting a medical patch. Hair was still a grotesque pile of muddy red and sticky gray soot, but someone promised her a shower once they got public stalls up and running. In this state of dysfunction, she really didn't care about her appearance.

That nurse gave her a hefty dose of drugs, so said the dripping IV bag suspended above her head. A one-eyed glare settled on the horizon; Britain's famous clock tower (Big Elizabeth? The Queen's Tower? Whatever the hell it was named now.) was slowly caving in on itself while a wondrous blanket of morning sunshine settled over city ruins.

_I'm sorry, Anderson._

She gave a ginger rub to the Admiral's dog tag lodged between thumb and forefinger. That special piece of metal brought on a sense of peace, comfort. At this point, she was beginning to question every decision she's ever made, starting off with joining the Alliance and ending with- _you have chosen. _A ghost child smiled, an explosion blurred her vision. She gave a muted gasp as footsteps squeaked behind her- fingers hid the metal within a clenched fist.

"Ma'am? How you feeling?" Dr. Myong approached slowly and purposely came into the woman's peripheral. Alloway warned him about obvious paranoia; she lurched at the slightest sound, growled at the closest shadow, and whispered sadly to herself. Disarray resonated deep in her soul.

"-how do you think?" Shepard muttered sarcastically. She watched the nurse walk by; busy on the task of checking vitals of the other patients, it betrayed the duo's presence. The doctor wanted information. And she wasn't about to give it.

"I think pretty well. Your vitals are leveling out. I'd say in two days, you'll be ready and able." Myong stopped short beside her chair, his gaze following hers; the tower. "Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about your eyesight. To be honest, I've never seen a modification of that type out on the market. Prototypes, yes... but in your case," he frowned slowly. "We don't have the means right now. I'd advice keeping it covered in bright lit areas."

"Yeah." One worded responses. He expected as much, post traumatic stress.

"Do you remember anything that could help us? There are many families looking for loved ones out there... I'm sure someone wants to know you're alive." He wasn't good with compassion, but he was grasping for straws.

Shepard almost smiled. Almost.

"Don't have a family, if that's what you're getting at. I already told you guys what happened. I took a hit to the head... don't remember jack. Woke up... it was raining."

Myong's teeth bit the edge of his tongue. There were holes in her story; body scans indicated she had cracks in her skull's parietal bone and very small fractures along the squamosal suture, but such injuries wouldn't have caused an immediate black out, just one helluva headache.

Say it was true, perhaps she lost family and friends – disclosing personal information wasn't in an Alliance soldier's nature, especially those of exceeding rank.

"What's this... Black Sea business, then?"

Shepard's shoulders bunched inward, as if physical movement would keep the information inside that twisting mouth of hers. She shifted in her seat and even dared to give the doctor an uneven stare.

"The Black _Tide._ I don't... know what it's about, honestly. I saw it when I was-" _**Dreaming**_. "-look, it was a nightmare, alright? I know that much..." she shook her head, but immediately regretted the gesture. "If my memory crops back, I'm sure I'll let you know. I think names are pretty irrelevant right now. Focus on the dead and dying. I'm neither of those."

She eased back into the chair again, her fist leveling with her knee. For looking so damaged, there was a proud gleam to her demeanor, some type of air that marked her as a captain... a leader.

Myong took a moment to remember this- for whatever reason, he wasn't quite sure himself. A sidelong glance, but after a strained silence, he nodded slowly. She knew her identity at heart, but chose to abandon it amongst the chaotic turmoil that was uprooting her mind. How long would she last?

"Very well... ma'am. I'll finish up your report and transfer it to headquarters so they know you're active and, hopefully, capable of service. Your report number is 410, filed under Jane Doe." He turned to leave, yet his shadow hovered directly beside her chair in an idling pause.

"For what it's worth, hardships make us who we are. We may want to forget them, but they shape us-"

"-I don't need the pep-talk, doctor. The faces I remember are blurred, they have no names. And mine? Not important." Shepard's interjection startled him, even hardened his narrow expression. He said nothing, but offered a meaningless pat to her shoulder. Myong left, leaving his nurse to deal with the rocky outcome.

"Do you need anything?" Alloway slowly paused beside her, but Shepard's gaze remained steadfast on the sloping towers and its hot smoke.

"Yeah..." Her fist unfolded, fingers probed the inside of her pants pocket_. _"Unhook this damn IV outta me and tell me where headquarters is located."

* * *

A halo of silver clouds hid away the afternoon sun; dismal scene as she straggled along, acrid odor hung in hazy fog patches throughout crowded streets. Not far from the strip mall, a fragment of Alliance authority remained in the lobby of the Royal Blue, once a ritzy hotel for London's rich and famous. Throngs of Alliance soldiers stood outside, nursing wounds and taking in fluids for the long haul ahead – rescue missions aplenty, civilians lined the sidewalks in their dirty clothes, begging anyone to assist them finding loved ones with photos.

Shepard felt a pang of pity for the few families that bared the brunt of harsh, but sympathetic gestures for leading officers. Brutal results came from the angry mobs that formed, she noticed; while it was typical to execute physical contact when words failed, many soldiers simply threatened looters with a 'shoot, ask questions later' policy. Sad thing to see, even sadder to comprehend – cruel methods were needed to beat out ones seeking anarchy.

What surprised her the most were the few aliens trapped planet side. Asari, mostly, they formed their own groups in the building conjoining the Royal Blue. She counted three turians amongst them- _Garrus_ came to mind and she instantly lost footing for a swift stumble. _We'll get answers soon enough._

Off in the alleyway as she slowly passed, foreign bodies were lined out beneath stained medical sheets. Krogan, she assumed by their lumpy, massive bodies and the discolored splotches of bile yellow; morbid curiosity wondered if Wrex laid there-

"No civilians past this point."

She nearly collided with a well-armed militant who looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. A lieutenant, said his emblem, a peon compared to the barking men inside the hotel's cracked interior.

"I'm Alliance. Here to report for duty." Her voice was several octaves lower than normal, smoke inhalation damaged her vocal chords. There was a skeptical gaze from the man, but he didn't budge.

"Yeah? You don't look like one. Medical services are in the strip center, two blocks from here-"

Suppose she deserved that, after all, she looked like absolute hell. Clothes were too big, hair was still a mess of tangled brown-red hair fastened up in a lazy ponytail that drooped against the back of her neck. To make matters worse, she switched out the taped gauze over her malfunctioning eye for an actual eyepatch – Nurse Alloway had been too kind... now, she looked like some pirate hobo.

"I was just _there._ Don't be a jackass, lieutenant. Let me in." Shepard snarled lowly, her voice graveling with dry irritation. She lifted her hand and tangled with fingers was Anderson's ID tag, the back only visible to the man's scowling eyes. Not many civilians knew the standard emblems of Alliance soldiers, and that tag looked rather legit...

"Sorry, … ma'am. Gotta be sure, with how fucked everything is right now..."

"Yeah, tell me about it. What's the situation?" The tag went lowered and cautiously tucked away again. Was it wrong to use Anderson's identity like this? _Probably._

"We don't even know. Right now, all our efforts are strained between finding food and water, and saving those poor bastards stuck in the carnage."

"Any word on eh... Admiral Hackett? And what's with the asari?" She fumbled poorly; fear caught in her throat as an aggressive lump that was too big to swallow. If he died-

"Yeah, but it was brief, about an hour ago. Communications are black throughout the city, but he reported that the Citadel was still in one piece. Mass Effect relays are broke as shit, though. He's looking for any and all engineers to take on the task of repairing them. The asari," he jerked his head to the blue-skinned aliens loitering twenty feet away. "-think they can get them up and running again, but they want a ship to get 'em up to the Citadel..." Hesitation spoke in his voice.

"-and why won't we give 'em one? I think they've earned it."

"They're mercs with the Eclipse Sisters. Most of 'em, anyway. Commander Rivela thinks they'll run off with supplies, or worse... kill civilians."

Commander Rivela? The name was oddly familiar...

"Any proof they'll 'steal' stuff, or are we just bein' greedy?" Shepard mildly scoffed while folding her arms across her chest.

"We already caught two stealing medical equipment, drugs. Right now, it's every species for themselves, and those damn addicts can wait until their people come for 'em." He was cold in such dismissal, but she knew where he was coming from -

"I see... is he the one in charge of this area, Rivela? Someone I can speak with?"

"Yeah, he's inside." Another head gesture; speckling sunlight pooled on the man's face, and for once, Shepard got a decent look at him as the fog evaporated vaguely. Youthful, possibly a few years younger than her, but relatively hardy – steel eyes and a mess of greasy brown hair.

"Alright... thanks." Shepard turned to walk by him as he moved off fissured steps-

"You got a name?" He called after her with a questionable squint.

"-ahm," … _shit._ "Corporal … Williams." An awkward clench in her aching intestines; taking two identities now? God help her.

"Pleasure, Williams. Lieutenant James Ellis, at your service." He coyly winked before facing the road again, his gaze captivated on the muttering asari nearby. Was that a flirt?

"Uh huh..." Shepard shook her head slowly with a grim feeling in the pit of her stomach. This was all going to come back and bite her in the ass...

* * *

The Royal Blue been unofficially gutted after being unofficially taken over by the governing fist of the Systems Alliance. Crystal chandeliers glimmered teal blue rainbows above them as some twisted reminder of where they were – in the presence of where London's royalty slept when they had one too many drinks out on the town and were too shameful to show back up at the Buckingham. Portraits of noblemen and royal blood dating all the way back to Queen Elizabeth the First herself decorated the walls, but many frames had been broken during the Reaper invasion.

Armed men and women stood in selective groups, some pouring over datapads while others took a primitive approach by looking at something she hadn't seen in awhile... _paper maps. _A holographic diagram was set up at the front desk; on closer look, it was a layout of the entire city – much of it marred in disruptive red lines. _Dead_ areas, presumably.

Nearby that were mismatching desks pulled in from downstairs; computer monitors crackled in broken bleeps, but occasional info spewed across their screens in holographic type. _Alliance Fleet MIA, _a soldier reviewing the list suddenly broke down in tears while a friend comforted her. Well, that solved where she was going next- _you sure you wanna know?_

"Hey! You! Yeah, you! We ain't got time for civilian shit! Someone throw that trash out..." A commanding voice hollered across the room with enough vibration to make the glassy decor above tremble in fear.

Shepard's one good eye flickered over to a meaty sonofabitch. Broad-shouldered to match his aggressive voice and rugged features, his venomous gaze seethed annoyance as they sized Shepard up, from head to toe. He wore one of the nicer armors around, customized even with a N7 emblem on the front. Must have been before her time, she couldn't place his face.

"_You_ must be Commander Rivela," she sneered while shoving off the hand of a grunt who attempted to wrangle her out by the arm. "Charming."

"Ahah, heard of me, huh? Well, ain't that nice. Get out, civ. We don't have time to help you find your dog, your cat, or your kid." Despite the obvious hostility in his voice, Rivela glared as the dirt-speckled woman approached his table of command.

"What _do_ you have time for, then?"

Rivela didn't like her. At all. There was a show of arrogance, especially in the way she openly knocked that serviceman aside like he was virtually nothing. Her presence was alarming, and her features were... strangely known.

"Look, we got a big operation here and none of us got time to play Knight. We got fires burning under the city, if they reach gas lines-" He cringed back the thought of explosions. "-who the fuck let you in here, anyway? Ellis, wasn't it? Gonna reprimand his ass..."

"Seemed okay to me." She ignored his growl. "But whatever. I'm here to help, medic report #410... Corporal Williams."

"Huh... wouldn't have figured..." Rivela didn't bother checking her nonexistent stats on his omnitool, thank fucking God. "The hell happen to your armor?"

"Took some mean scruffs at Ground Zero. I know, I know... white isn't a complimenting color on me."

Instant whispers beside her, jostling soldiers instantly turned, their eyes falling on the red-headed, one-eyed woman. She was the survivor everyone was hyping about; Shepard didn't like where that was going.

"You... yeah, heard about them finding you down there." Rivela didn't seem impressed by her survival abilities, he shrugged off her smug smirk with a prompt grunt. "Didn't think you'd be up so soon. Lose an eye?" His smile was far from caring, Shepard noticed – she gave no reply, besides imagining her fist in his throat. "Alright... you wanna work, by all means..." He touched idly at his omnitool; the technology fluttered errors before a firm slap corrected its visual features. "You'll be set up with the Search and Rescue Battalion Post 787. Look for Captain Marcus Kilgore posted outside. Think he's trying to get the asari to cooperate..."

"With what?"

"We got some brigs set up to throw 'em in, assuming their people come back for them at all. I doubt it, fuckin' Eclipse Sisters, mercenaries. One claimed to be a soldier, but we don't have any ID to back it. As far as I'm concerned, they shoulda all died back there."

A xenophobe. Nice.

"They lost their planet, you sonuva-"

"Are you speaking outta line, Corporal? We still got rules to follow, and I'll gladly fuckin' throw you in the brigs with them for disciplinary shit, you got me?" Rivela cut her short, and quick – a verbal blow that stunned Shepard into a teeth-gnashing silence. "S'what I thought. Go suit up, armory's upstairs. Ya smell and look like dogshit." She was waved off, dismissed in one of the rudest ways possible. Wasn't it the other way around? Normally she was the cold, ruthless Commander ignoring those that got in her way. _You could fix all that, right now. Tell 'em who you are._ No one would believe her, anyway. Shepard's absence wasn't missed._  
_

"Dick..."

She glowered privately as she edged upstairs, her beaten figure almost trampled on as a horde of laughing men stumbled down the carpeted steps. They smelled like cheap alcohol... how was that following Alliance rules? _Got a bad feeling about this._


End file.
